


Where the Story Ends

by melbie



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Bat Family, Canonical Character Death, Dead Robins, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melbie/pseuds/melbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life after death of Damian Wayne. Guest starring the Bat family, past and present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Story Ends

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Quotes are from Batman & Robin Vol. 2 #11 and 12, and Batman Incorporated #8.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are copyrighted and owned by DC Comics. I own nothing.

Damian blinked.

An offending beam of sunlight had pierced through a crack in the heavy drapery, crawling along the floor and invading the thick darkness of his room. No doubt Alfred’s interference was at work. The old butler had always disapproved of his masters’ nocturnal habits.

But there was no sleeping again once the day had begun. He swung his legs around carefully so as not to knock his MP3 player off the edge. The headphones had not been so lucky. They lay twisted and tangled under his foot. Maybe Alfred would pick them up later. 

Damian kept his room in a state of military-grade cleanliness to the point where Alfred’s meticulous housekeeping typically went unneeded, but he felt obligated to throw the butler a bone every so often.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. At least until his father was unceremoniously awoken. Bruce Wayne’s cries of anguish against the morning light could be heard echoing around the mansion’s labyrinthine rooms. After several minutes of bartering with whatever deity could be responsible for cursing him so, he shuffled downstairs, rubbing his stubble complacently and glowering into a cup of coffee.

“Can I tempt you, Master Damian?” Alfred extended a laden silver tray with a plate of over-easy eggs, a rasher of bacon, plump sausages, a pot of tea, and a glass of orange juice.

“Just tea will do, Pennyworth.” He accepted the delicate china pot and a copy of the morning paper.

“A good day begins with a hearty breakfast.”

“And should I see such a feast I shall happily partake.” Sometimes there was no greater pleasure than taking a shot at Alfred’s cooking skills, which paled in comparison with his ability to lecture.

“Very droll, sir,” Alfred replied in a tone of polite disinterest. “Master Bruce?”

Damian’s father grunted in assent and dug into the meal. A lifetime of living with the astute butler had built up a certain tolerance that Damian’s taste buds simply refused to accept.

The stimulating aroma of black assam wafted about the air in tandem with the chatter of the morning news. “Batman and Robin appeared again last night,” reported an attractive blonde anchorwoman. The story was accompanied by a grainy photo of a blurred shadow and the smudged corner of a canary yellow cape.

Damian smirked over the rim of his tea cup. He mentally applauded the mass media’s dogged attempts to capture the crime-fighting duo on film in the same way one claps for a mediocre grade school play on the importance of nutrition.

Finished with his breakfast, his father excused himself from the table and appeared minutes later freshly shaven in a suit and tie with an enigmatic twinkle in his eye. Damian had seen his father change into the Batman armor in mere seconds, but nothing would compare with his early morning transformations into clean-cut billionaire philanthropist, Bruce Wayne.

“Meeting with the board today,” he told Alfred. “If they’re not finished by lunch, schedule me an extremely important meeting I can’t bear to miss.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the ‘family member in the hospital’ excuse, sir?”

“I can always cripple Drake at a moment’s notice if need be,” Damian called unhelpfully from the dining room.

“On second thought, maybe I’ll work through lunch,” Bruce said with a pointed frown at his son.

“That would certainly show us,” Alfred mused while helping his master slip his arms through his work jacket.

“Wayne Enterprise’s stock dropped eight percent overnight,” Damian commented noncommittally, still perusing the paper. “Tell them to fire whoever’s dropping the ball. That should liven things up.”

His father chuckled. “Would you like to come and tell them yourself?”

Damian’s head snapped up. Did he hear that right? An invitation to accompany his father to work and express his opinion to the board? “I’ll need two minutes to change.” He strode briskly to the stairs and, once he was out of sight, broke into a full-out sprint.

It ended up taking seven and a half minutes to dress. At least four minutes longer than it had taken Bruce. He decided to make this a new goal.

* * *

As it turned out, the board meeting was a confidential affair. Despite Bruce’s insistence, Damian found himself exiled to the waiting room. The young receptionist had already made the mistake of offering him a lollipop to pass the time, to which Damian gave a scathing reply on the irresponsibility of offering sugar to youths and asked if she was trying to stunt his growth. She had since retreated behind her desk and spoke no more.

“What are you doing here?”  a grating voice demanded. 

Timothy Drake, his unfortunate step-brother, had entered the room. His obnoxiously coifed hair curled delicately at the temple and he wore an obnoxiously pressed suit with an obnoxiously red tie. Every minute or so his hand flew up to his collar to loosen it. Obnoxiously.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here to see Tam. Have you seen her?”

Lucius Fox’s attractive daughter had, in fact, passed through the office a short while ago. “No,” Damian answered. “I believe today is her day off.”

“So she  _is_  here. Thanks.” He turned to the receptionist. “Would you call Ms. Tamara Fox for me?”

“She’s just upstairs. Would you like me to get her?”

“That’d be great, thanks so much.” He smiled, exuding charm from every pore.

The receptionist flushed visibly under the gaze of billionaire Bruce Wayne’s billionaire son ( _adopted_ son, he reminded himself), and scurried from the room, fanning her face lightly. Damian mimed projectile vomiting into a potted plant.

The room now clear of witnesses, Tim Drake folded his arms and flipped his mouth into a frown. “So. I saw that news report about last night.”

“Oh?” Damian hadn’t watched the whole thing, but presumably there had been some complaint about excessive force. His father had already lectured him on the morality of shoving criminals’ faces through plate glass windows. He did not wish to hear another from the half-brother who walked around looking like Doctor Mid-Nite and had a cape with mechanical feathers. Or was that a different costume?

“You’re really pushing it, Damian.”

“Last I checked, Father was my guardian. Not you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t offer some...‘brotherly’ advice. Y’know, Robin to Robin.”

 _“Tt,”_  he scoffed. “A distasteful joke, Drake.  _You_  were never Robin.”

“What are you talking about?” Drake’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I was wearing that ‘R’ way before you were even genetically mutated. Not to mention I actually did my job without killing anyone.”

Damian paused. But...no, of course Drake was his predecessor. How had he made such a juvenile slip of the tongue? Voluntary amnesia, probably.

“Perhaps, but compared to me, your performance was more akin to a bumbling fanboy’s,” he recovered seamlessly.

Drake shook his head. “Knew we shouldn’t have introduced you to the internet,” he grumbled.

At that moment, the ravishing Ms. Fox appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Tim,” she waved him over. “Ready for lunch?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Drake turned to the receptionist, who was watching the pair apprehensively. “Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble while he’s here. Wouldn’t want Bruce to ground you, now would we?”

 _I’d sooner see_ you _in the ground,_  Damian wanted to snarl. But he bit his lip and smiled cynically in reply.

* * *

 

The board meeting turned out to be a wasted effort. Damian left Wayne Tower filled with more frustration than he had started the day with. He sought comfort, relaxation, something to ease his throbbing nerves.

Cassandra Cain was the very essence of tranquility. Her nature probably stemmed from a fledgling knowledge of English and a life of training in the silent arts. Damian could feel his irritation cooling just by basking in her presence. They sat in the clock tower eating lunch after Cassandra’s daily training. Her black and stitched Batgirl costume was slung over the back of her chair. 

The ever-disapproving Oracle was stationed at her monitors as usual. Her fingernails clacked rhythmically in time with the staccato keystrokes. She had shot Damian a special brand of glare reserved specially for him, but grunted her assent when he asked to stay for lunch.

The two helped themselves to sandwiches and salad from the tower’s rather paltry fridge while Damian completed the morning paper’s crossword in pen. Cassandra chewed mutely and watched his hands scribble the letters. Every so often she would unconsciously mime the writing movements herself. Damian was pleased to note that she was improving her muscle memory at a steady rate. 

Cassandra tapped at the paper with the butt of her fork. He moved her hand to see the word in question. 

"Voyage," he said. 

"V-voyage?" she asked. 

“It means a long journey or expedition,” he explained. 

“Oh.”

They fell back into contemplative silence. Cassandra didn’t speak much, but then neither did he. She was a member of an endangered species of human he never felt like mouthing off towards. The esteemed Oracle, on the other hand, was far too easy to bait.

Barbara Gordon twisted around in her chair. Her glasses threw the glow from the computer screens across the room. The pale, milky light matched her fair complexion. 

“Sorry to interrupt your scintillating conversation, but Batgirl and I have a Birds meeting soon.”

Cassandra complied at once, depositing her dishes in sink at once, and departing with a short bow and quiet farewell. 

Damian, on the other hand, stayed put. He had nothing else to do, after all. Might as well seize entertainment where he could. “Are you certain you wouldn’t wish me to stay? This isn’t an underhanded way of asking me to join your little team? Because I suppose I could wrangle some time from my busy schedule...”

Barbara wheeled over with a fierce fire in her eyes. For a moment she stood heads taller than him, casting a shadow over the table. “Beat it, Robin. Don’t make me call Bruce.” And she would, the sneaky trollop.

Damian knew it was more prudent to avoid conflict with the former Batgirl. The definition in her biceps was accentuated in the noon sunlight streaming through the enormous glass clock face. She could easily clean  _his_ clock with one blow from those strengthened forearms. 

So instead he pointed to the monitor and said, “Your coding is wrong. There, there, and there.” Then he promptly swept from the room.

Sure enough, before the door could click closed, he could hear Barbara’s audible groan and a disgruntled, “Damn.”

* * *

 

Biding time until nightfall was perhaps Damian’s most difficult task, though not for want of potential activities. The white canvas of his sketchbooks were splayed open on the bedspread, yearning for a smudge of charcoal or a scrawl of pencil.  A stack of unread books lay tantalizing on the dresser.

He glanced at the handwritten list resting on top. In girlish yet sloppy letters were recommended book titles for acting signed with the initials, “C.K.” He blinked again and the list was now a number of chores he had neglected to finish. 

 _Strange,_  he thought.  _My eyes must be playing tricks._  At first it felt too coincidental to ignore, but what other explanation could there be for an interest in acting books? As if he were not already beyond skilled in the art of espionage. Ridiculous.

Suddenly he winced in pain as a foreign object dug into the soft underside of his naked foot. An unclasped collar lay curled on the floor, crumpled from being stepped on. Its silver name tag distinctly read the name, “Titus.” Another curious item. His father simply did not allow pets in the house. With the exception of the bats.

He kept the collar on his bedside table. Just in case.

* * *

 

At last the sun had gone down, and Gotham’s creatures snuck out from the city’s deepest crevices, squinting in the moonlight. 

With no big game to hunt or case to solve, Batman contented himself to backing up files on the Bat-Computer. Or so he claimed. Damian had pretended not to notice the emergency bulletin about the notorious “cat burglar” who had robbed a downtown jewelry store. It was of no consequence. Secretly, he relished his father’s solo excursions because it gave him the opportunity to patrol alone.

Damian cherished the stinging needles of icy wind on his cheeks as he sprinted along the rooftops. Each stomach-dropping, teeth-clenching freefall was a reminder that he was alive.  _Life, life, life._  The city teemed with it. Bursting to the brim with light that was muffled underneath a dark blanket of crime and terror. 

Tonight, Damian would be their dark protector.

At least, that was the goal. While in the midst of tackling an ungainly purse snatcher, he noticed a splash of color in the corner of his mask. Specifically, electric blue wings. 

Grayson. One of the benefits of him moving back to Bludhaven was the lack of competition in the area. Not to mention there was one less quipping, flipping aerialist in the skies.

During their brief tenure as Batman and Robin, he had studied the first Robin’s movements with great interest. Grayson had derived much of his skill from a childhood of circus tents, presumably spent in the company of various sideshow freaks and elephants with jeweled headgear. Whatever had possessed his father to take in such an uncouth child was beyond him, but clearly the decision had achieved results. Grayson was now - he hated to admit - a valuable asset to their cause.

Damian rolled his eyes and tripped the thief, smoothly pinning him against the ground and tossing the purse back to its grateful owner. “What do you want, Nightwing?” he asked the empty air.

Like a summoned genie, Richard Grayson dropped from the sky, nearly causing the restrained thief to wet himself. Damian merely blinked against the rush of wind.

“Nothing much,” he sang. “I was just swinging through town. Thought I’d say hi.” He waved an obnoxious hand in Damian’s face. “Hi.”

“Consider your message received. Good night."

“Aw, don’t be like that, D,” Grayson wheedled all the way to the GCPD where Damian left the thug hogtied to a lamp post. “I’m in town for the night, so let’s patrol together. It’ll be just like old times. Whaddaya say?”

“As enticing as your offer is, I would prefer to work alone.” Damian attempted to swing off into the dark without him, but his former partner was dogged in following.

“Two bats are better than one.”

“I am more than capable of performing the work of five ‘bats,’ as you well know. There would little for you to do.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Damian huffed a sigh. “No, Grayson, because unlike you I do not believe the world is one big game.”

“Maybe if you did you'd have a sense of humor.”

“There’s no use baiting me. I'm not in the mood.”

But once Dick Grayson got an idea in his head, there was no way to shake it loose. “You’re just saying that because you know I can catch more criminals than you,” he said, eyebrows waggling with mischief.

Damian bit his lip, hard. He would not rise to the bait. He would not rise, he would not -

“Fine” he finally spat. “You’re on.”

There is no such thing as a petty argument when reputation is on the line.

* * *

 

In a matter of hours, the two brothers had swiftly reunited on the roof of the Wayne Corp building to compare notes. 

“I’ve got eleven,” said Grayson, ticking them off his fingers. “Two home invaders, four gangsters, four muggers, and a teenager shoplifting gum. That’s for you,” he tossed Damian a package of wintergreen chewing gum. Damian frowned with suspicion. “What? I paid for it!”

Damian pocketed the gum and smirked. “Eleven? Is that all?”

“Why? How many did you get?”

He reached for a paper bag on the ground beside him and kicked it over. Out fell a heap of sew-on patches that had clearly been ripped from a number of jackets. Most still had the fraying remnants of fabric attached. “Twenty-six,” Damian declared proudly. “There was an underground meeting of a private security team that was planning a violent uprising against their employers. You can expect to see it on tomorrow’s morning news.”

Dick knelt to pick through the badges. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “Wow, that is impressive. You sure got me beat this time, Damian.”

“Naturally,” he said with a little huff. “Was there any doubt?”

“None,” his brother replied good-naturedly. “What would this city do without you?”

Damian blinked. Rubbed his eyes. A strange feeling of nostalgia had seized him. Words in his voice that he had never once uttered aloud.

* * *

_“What would you do without me, Grayson?”_

_“So far I’d say you’ve been my favorite partner. We were the_ **_best_ ** _, Richard. No matter what anyone thinks.”_

_“Hey. We can’t help being great.”_

* * *

“Well,” Dick’s voice snapped through the deja vu. “I’d say ‘until next time,’ but it looks like we’re not alone.”

“Wha-?” Damian’s ear pricked up with the sensitivity of a bloodhound. 

Grayson was right. While he had been spacing out, a definite drop of steel-toed boot on metal had rung out. The fire escape. 

_Click._

Damian whirled around to find himself eye-to-muzzle with a gun. He nearly went cross-eyed trying to keep the gun and its wielder in sight, spitting curses under his breath all the while.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite duo. How goes the good fight? You clean up the streets tonight? Bruce must be so proud of his little janitors.”

How easy it would have been to gut the man from neck to navel. That accursed oath he had sworn to Father never to kill again stayed his hand as always. Not that he didn’t still search for the odd exception or two. And Jason Todd certainly should have qualified as an exception.

“They’ll be even cleaner once I’ve hung your lifeless body out to dry, Todd.”

The former Robin smirked, smoothly uncocked the pistol, and slid it back into its holster. “Cool your jets, baby bird. I come with fair tidings.”

“Oh?”

“Saw what happened with that hotel security team. I was thinking of busting them myself until you came swooping in to save the day. Not how I would've handled it, but nice work.”

 _Why did you not help if you were there?_ Damian wanted to ask. It wasn’t as though they had not fought side-by-side before. They had even made a good team-

No. No, that never happened. What was he  _thinking?_

Besides, Todd would never come to the family’s assistance unless it profited himself in some way. Nor would Father accept the help of a murdering scoundrel like Todd. He shook the images from his head. Folly. Perhaps sleep was enticing his brain.

When he refocused his attentions, Todd was still talking. Unfortunately. “My favorite was the one guy whose head you put through the car windshield. Classic,” he said with a little sarcastic applause.

Damian could feel the blaze of Grayson’s questioning glare on the back of his head. He shrugged. “Purely self defense, I assure you.”

“Hey, no judgment!” Todd put his hands up in defense. “I get it. We've all got our own way of doing things. Y'know, we're more similar than you like to think, whiz kid.”

* * *

_“I get it. Bruce does things his way -- I do them mine. No harm, no foul.”_

* * *

Richard stepped forward before either of them could react. “You’ve said your piece. Now, back off.”

“Oh? I’m starting to want you to make me, circus boy.”

But Grayson, ever the adult, was not one to rise to petty taunts. “Go home, Jason.” His voice was steady and steep with malevolent calm, and his hands were drifting towards the escrima sticks in his belt.

Todd shrugged. “Fine, fine, I’m done. But if you ever get tired of the hero beat, hit me up, little D."

"I'd rather watch you choke to death on your own bloody crowbar."

"Like I haven't heard that one before. Anyway, things to do, people to kill. You know how it is.” And he hopped backwards off the roof with a childish wiggle of his fingers. “Say hi to Daddy for me!”

Grayson relaxed his grip on the escrima. “One of these days,” he muttered.

Damian turned on his heel to strut in the opposite direction. “That man is nothing but a dirty smear on the Robin legacy. Let him run home to his outlaw friends, the coward.”

“Friends? Plural?” Dick shook his head. “I didn’t know he had any, other than that Scarlet girl.”

“In any case, obvious interruptions aside, this has been a most productive evening for us both.”

Dick smiled and clapped Damian on the back. “Wasn’t it though? I’m telling you, we should do this more often.”

“Indeed, we -” 

* * *

_There was a crash of splintering glass. Nightwing smashed into a display case. A medieval suit of armor broke his flight. He lay there, bleeding steadily, unable to move. The splattered ribbons of blood tangled with the crimson stripes dashing up his arms and across his front._

_“Look at_ ** _me!_  ** _Touch him again, I’ll_ ** _kill_  ** _you!”_

_In the corner of his eye, a great, hulking shadow was taking up the abandoned broadsword and-_

* * *

“Robin? Hey, anybody home?” Two vibrant blue striped fingers snapped in front of his face. Damian glared at the perpetrator.

“My apologies, I was-” He cleared his throat with a cough. “No matter. Until next time, Grayson. It has been an...enjoyable evening. Thank you."

Dick looked so taken aback he nearly slipped off the roof. “You - you’re welcome?”

* * *

 

There was some time remaining before sunrise to patrol. Most of the Bat family operatives had turned in for the evening, but some were like him. Restless in the night. Unable to hang up the cape, even if only for an hour or two. Because for some, there was no telling when they would darn the cape and cowl once more. For some, "next time" was a luxury they couldn't afford to neglect.

Stephanie Brown was one of those people.

Back in the Stone Age, she had played sidekick and girlfriend to Tim Drake during his Robin years. She had been running around under the thoroughly uninspired moniker, Spoiler, and had donned a homemade purple cape and black ski mask. Honestly, could Gotham's standards fall any lower?

In any case, Damian stumbled upon her when he decided to wander near the Gotham University campus. He’d been hoping to put the fear of God in some drunk college students or maybe break up a frat party or two just for fun. 

Yet, there she was. Fatgirl. In the flabby flesh. She seemed to be dealing with some drug dealers from a local crime syndicate. No doubt she had caught them attempting to peddle to the university students. Despite her constant screw-ups and muck abouts, the latest Batgirl model was somewhat dependable, so he felt reassured enough to sit back and watch the show.

Stephanie planted her bo staff squarely on the ground, and then, with a running start, used it to pinwheel kick a man in the face. Blood squirted from his nostrils and streamed through the air as he toppled against one of his friends, and both men collapsed in a heap.

“Two for the price of one!” she quipped, flashing a peace sign.

Damian rolled his eyes. Her methods were not unlike Grayson's, minus the acrobatic flair. They both had a somewhat chaotic style, willfully lashing out and kicking where their instincts guided them. His father's training was clearly visible in some of her more elegant moves, but the joy and exuberance she displayed were entirely her own. 

It was folly. Emotions had no place on the battlefield. This was a firm belief he and his father shared and practiced. But for people like Stephanie and Richard, taking enjoyment from righteous work seemed to deliver the desired results, and he supposed there was nothing wrong with a little vindictive pleasure every so often.

Below, Stephanie had pulled off a tricky maneuver and let out of a victory whoop. Completely ignoring the thug sneaking behind her brandishing a pocket knife.

It was pure instinct that made Damian help. His fingers reached into his belt of their own accord and whipped a batarang at her would-be attacker. The man fell with a  _clunk;_  his head made a satisfyingly solid smack against the dirt. His colleagues took the opportunity to gather themselves and made a hasty retreat.

Stephanie spun around and gave an unattractive grimace. Her lack of surprise meant she had sensed his presence some time ago. “I had him,” she growled.

“Naturally,” Damian swung off the tree and landed primly on the ground, barely causing the grass to rustle. “So. Fatgirl. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“That’s my line,” Stephanie frowned. “You’re invading my turf.”

He scoffed. “All of Gotham is my hunting ground. I’ve been given no boundaries - unlike you - because my father has faith in my abilities - unlike _you_.”

In place of a retort, she tossed a sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder. On purpose, of course. She knew it was one of his more inexplicable pet peeves to see her gallivanting about with her hair loose. No matter how he tried to convince her it was tactical folly, she absolutely refused to tuck it away. Something about feminine pride? In all honesty, he had tuned out most of her self-righteous filibusters.

“Isn’t it  _way_ past your bedtime?” her voice positively dripped with attitude. “You should sleep. Growing boys need their naptime to get big and strong.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Excuse me, I’m taller than you.”

“I meant sleep. I don’t think my father would be happy about employing operatives who  _flunked_  out of university,” he savored the moment before delivering the final blow. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s currently midterm week? Whatever would you do if you overslept an exam or two?”

Her lip curled. He could see her weighing the impulse to punch him and the crushing truth that she had lost track of time and had merely a handful of hours until her morning exam. “Whatever. Don’t let me interrupt your late-night excursions,” she said while picking up her scattered ‘rangs and folding her collapsible staff. “I don’t know why you’re trying so hard, D. You’ve got nothing to prove.”  _Unlike me,_  the unspoken words echoed between them.

Damian kicked lightly at the dirt. “Perhaps-” he started to say when a persistent humming started to pulsate through his brain. 

* * *

_“You don’t need to try so hard, Damian. If you haven’t noticed, kid, you’re already wearing the ‘R’ on your chest.”_

* * *

“Gah!” He clutched his temples and screwed up his eyes. This time...this time for sure! Those words, the voice was Grayson’s there was no doubt, but-

“Robin?” Stephanie Brown’s voice faded in and out like a broken speaker. “What’s wrong? What’s happening? Damian, snap out of it!”

His tongue felt heavy and gritty like he had swallowed a cup of sand. “This night...has been so strange. I keep hearing things, impossible things. Words I’ve never spoken nor heard before, and yet I recognize the voices.”

She huffed a sigh. “Voices? I’m no doctor, but self-diagnosed schizophrenia is never a good sign.”

“Don’t you mock me, Batgirl,” he spat. “I’ll have you know my mental faculties are in top shape and decades ahead of yours!”

“Keep it up, short stack,” she fingered her utility belt much like a cowboy in an old spaghetti Western. “I’ve already had my evening warm-up.”

For a split second he considered her tempting threat. Then he raised a hand, still gripping his hairline with the other. “No, no, this is not the time for fighting.”

“Never heard you say  _that_ before.”

“I am serious! I...I don’t know what’s real anymore! My surroundings feel like an illusion, or-or a trick, or something.”

She watched him shiver for a moment, and then quickly adopted a nurturing tone. “What are you talking about? No one's trying to trick you, Robin. Everything you see is real.”

He was blustering now. The words tumbled out of their own accord. “How can I be sure? Is this really Gotham? Are you truly standing before me? Are you not just another figment of my addled, sadistic imagination?”

“How about if I punch you really hard in the face? Will that help?”

A vein throbbed in his forehead. “Don’t you  _dare_  mock me! I am not a child for you to coddle!”

Stephanie was taken aback. The intensity of his fear and rage had pierced some emotional balloon, and the sarcasm was leaking out of her. Warmth and sympathy filled up her eyes. “Look, Damian. I don't know what you’re hallucinating or hearing, but all I can say is that this," she gestured grandly at the Gotham skyline. "Is what it is."

“It’s a dream. It has to be.”

She chuckled. “If it were I’d expect it to be a bit less Gotham and criminals, and bit more sandy beaches and handsome men feeding me grapes.”

He recognized her intention to soothe him with her good-natured smiles and easy jokes. He should have faked a smirk, given sarcastic thanks, and bid her good night. But for some reason everything about her was infuriating. The flippant way she treated his moment of weakness, her complacent tone, her sympathy, and her pathetic humor. No one could explain what was happening. No one at all!

Rage consumed his thoughts and spilled into his words. “I'm tired of your jokes! If I’d wanted games and riddles, I would have dug up your father!”

The minute he closed his mouth he knew he had hurt her. Stephanie bit her lip hard and wordlessly vaulted across to the opposing building. He watched her swing away through the sprawling streets. 

In the fading dimness of night he couldn't even place the proper color of her hair. It flashed from blonde, to red, to black, to blonde again. In seconds she was gone, and Damian was left alone once more. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the night.

* * *

 

Mere minutes until sunrise. Damian climbed the spires of his father’s tallest building and perched there like a nesting bird. The orange-purple sunrise was spreading lazily across the sky. But he knew it was the end. The world was falling to pieces.

Gotham was coming undone before his very eyes.

The scene flickered uneasily. Buildings bled together into a cast iron gray blur. It was as though the images of two different Gothams were battling for supremacy. Two different shades of metallic gray, of hazy purple sunset, of crystalline white from the sinking moon. Gotham was a slowly shattering rose window. But her skyline remained the same. 

Damian blinked. Just for a second. And the city was gone. An expanse of blinding white nothingness surrounded him on all sides. 

Ah. Of course. He had probably deduced the answer some time ago, but refused to place the pieces together until now. He wasn’t the son of the world’s greatest detective for nothing.

He gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Couldn’t let me hold the dream a bit longer, could you?”

The white afterlife did not reply.

“It’s all right,” his voice echoed endlessly, sending ripples through the air. “I’ve known all along. Deep down. I’m dead, aren’t I?”

_Dead. But not alone._

The figures of his family crowded around him. 

Tim Drake at one shoulder, doleful and frowning slightly, and Cassandra Cain at the other, silent as a shadow. Jason Todd, sulking and smarmy as ever; Barbara Gordon wheeling up beside him, her green eyes flashing with intrigue; and Dick Grayson with an affectionate hand on her shoulder. Alfred stood at attention, stiff-backed and smiling kindly. 

Stephanie took his hand. He allowed it. Her touch was delicate, and he could feel her pulse fluttering lightly through her wrist. “I’m sorry,” she said.

"As am I." He smiled. “It’s all right, Stephanie. It may not be real, but it’s enough.” Her blue eyes swam with tears. She looked dreadful. And that was okay.  “Besides, it’s only the end if you want it to be. Right?”

Stephanie beamed brightly and pulled him into a hug that nearly caved in his chest. They laughed.

Last of all, Bruce Wayne appeared, looming morosely behind his family. His usual stern lipped scowl was relaxed into a half-smile. His wide shoulders nearly encompassed the scene and cast a warm shadow over Damian’s head. Damian’s father rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, which was now draped in a canary yellow cape. Yes. Together, they were invincible.

“Just the way I’ve always imagined it,” he whispered.

Everyone accounted for. Everyone except...

Damian glanced over his shoulder. A woman knelt in the distance. Her black-brown hair stood out against the stark white canvas. The strands draped over her face in a thick curtain as she wept quietly. He wanted to beckon her closer, to bring her into the fold. But he knew she would refuse. No one could tell Talia al Ghul what to do. Not really.

He rubbed the budding tears from his eyes and turned to his family. They gazed back at him. Their smiles were wide, but their eyes were empty like the bottom of a dried-up well. Dirt and vines had grown over their old selves, mere shavings and shadows of the past.

“You’re not really here. None of you are. And...neither am I.”

* * *

 

Damian blinked. 

Rubbed his eyes. 

An offending beam of sunlight had pierced through a crack in the heavy drapery. No doubt made by Alfred on purpose. He swung his legs around the bed, narrowly avoiding his MP3 player, but trodding on the twisted headphones. He sighed, hoping Alfred would pick them up later.

He stood at the window. A shining, splendorous Gotham stared back at him. They gazed at each other for a spell, and then Damian hurried down the stairs for breakfast. He wondered what the new day would bring.


End file.
